3 #2
They watched her quietly for a time, seeming to have silently agreed that this moment was to be cherished. Suddenly his mother turned to him.
“But you must be hungry. Come, I was just about to set out lunch.”
He followed her into the cramped hall, to the back of the cottage and the compact kitchen.
“Lord Durand’s housekeeper, Mrs. Higgins, sent over a generous portion of ham with bread and cheese not long ago,” she said as she guided him to the table.
“I’m indebted to her. Verity kept me so busy out of doors today and I was so involved with the unpacking I did not have time to consider what to prepare for us. ”
When she would have reached for the apron hanging up on the peg, however, he rose, gently gripping her by the shoulders and directing her to the same seat he had just vacated.
He had seen the tightness radiating from the corners of her eyes, the faintly pinched, bloodless look to her mouth though she smiled.
Her hands pained her more today than usual, no doubt due to the added activities she’d taken on in settling them into their new life.
“I can handle it myself,” she protested, trying to stand again. As he expected she would. She was stubborn to a fault, Mrs. Maeve Archer.
Once more he gently pushed her down into the chair.
“It is for my sake, not yours,” he said, the lie softened by the fact that it was flavored with the truth.
It truly would ease his mind to know she could relax for even a few minutes.
He moved about the kitchen looking for a knife, his large frame making him feel clumsy in the small space.
“You are a stubborn thing,” she grumbled as he began cutting thick slices of the still-soft bread. But out of the corner of his eye he saw her shoulders sag ever so slightly, heard her small exhale of relief.
“I get it from you,” he teased. “But tell me about your morning. Verity must have been hard to rein in.”
She chuckled. “You know your sister,” she quipped before sobering. “But what of you? How is Lord Durand? What will the work be like?”
The questions were simple enough, but he heard the underlying worry to them.
His mother had been thrilled at the offer of employment, but her initial relief had been slowly replaced with unease as the details of the offer were made known.
She had always been hardworking, had never expected or accepted handouts.
Such things came with strings attached, she had often said—or teeth that could bite when you were least aware.
But though he knew her suspicions, she had remained silent. Such had been the level of their desperation, something he could blame only himself for. If he had turned a blind eye, had accepted what the other Bow Street Runners involved in the scandal had told him?.? .? .
He pressed his lips tight and gave his head a sharp shake, even as he arranged the bread slices on a plate and grabbed the hard chunk of cheese.
There was no use crying over if onlys . What was done was done, and there was no coming back from it.
The only thing he could do now was move forward—and vow not to make the same mistake again.
“Lord Durand is an unusual man,” he said now, making his voice as even as possible to prevent his mother from hearing his disquiet.
“He has quite a rare collection of plants, and his main concern is the protection of them. I’m certain the job will be quiet and easy.
” He looked at her, forcing a smile in an attempt to smooth the deep grooves that had taken roost on her brow.
“After all, who would want to go to the trouble of stealing a plant?”
A week later, however, and those words to his mother, easily said and nearly forgotten, came back to bite him in the proverbial arse.
The night had been quiet enough. As was every night, something he had expected but had yet to get used to.
In London every hour had been busy, chaotic, whether it be three in the morning or high noon.
Here, however, his nights were spent roaming over the dark landscape, with no one but his thoughts and the occasional nocturnal creature to keep him company.
Truly, this job had turned out to be so much easier than he had ever thought it could be.
There was no corruption to unearth, no criminals to chase down?.
.? .? no sense of satisfaction for a job well done.
But no, he brutally reminded himself, smothering the faint sense of regret in his chest, this was all so much better than scouring dirty London streets for criminals.
He breathed in deeply of the crisp dawn air, willing it to wash away the last of his lingering qualms as he made a turn around the far side of the glasshouses.
Wasn’t this so much nicer than the coal-infused atmosphere of London? Yes, this suited him fine indeed.
Perhaps he was a bit too focused on the loveliness of his environment—or, at least, on forcing himself to appreciate the loveliness of his environment. Otherwise he would not have been so surprised to see a slight figure half-hidden by a bush crouched down beside the glasshouse wall.
He came to a sudden stop, boots kicking up loose gravel, before he had the wherewithal to move to the side of the path, the better to observe the person without being detected.
Or, rather, to observe her , for she was most definitely female.
She was slender, yes. But there was no disguising the way her pale green dress hugged her rounded derriere as she leaned forward to peer within the building.
Nor was there any concealing the long, swanlike neck, the soft curve to her cheek, the pert nose.
Added to that the generous, chaotic array of blond curls piled atop her head, and there was no denying this person was a woman. A lovely, alluring woman—
He halted that last thought in its tracks, nearly blanching.
What the devil was wrong with him? Yes, she was pretty.
But that did not give him cause to think of her in such a base, superficial way.
Her fingers trailed over the glass, as if looking for an opening, and he narrowed his eyes.
Especially as she was not here for any good purpose.
Oliver moved forward, each step carefully taken so she could not discern his approach.
Could he outrun her if she chose to bolt?
Judging by the length of her limbs, he could, and easily.
But that did not mean he did not want this taken care of as quickly and neatly as possible.
He watched her closely, how she moved down the building, testing each seam of wrought iron that separated the gleaming glass.
Her fingers were long, and as slender as she was.
But even from where he stood he could see they did not match the delicacy of the rest of her.
No, there were pale scars crisscrossing their backs, a small bandage on one finger, her nails almost painfully short.
Though why that should make her even more attractive to his eyes, he didn’t have a clue?. .? .
He shook his head sharply to dispel the rogue thoughts. Truly, what was wrong with him? Attractive woman or not, she was a suspicious person who needed to be apprehended. He slunk up behind her, his hand flashing out and grasping her arm.
Whatever he had been about to say to her as he spun her about, however, was lost as her hand—the very same hand he had been admiring just moments ago—twisted, pulling her arm free from his grip.
Before he could comprehend what was happening, she took hold of his wrist and pulled it across her body a second before her knee came up and rammed with all her might—much more than he would have ever believed possible—into his stomach.
The breath ripped from his lungs, a garbled groan the only thing that emerged from his lips as he toppled to the ground like a felled tree.